Bridge of Swords

by Duncan Lay

  The Velshman nodded then tapped several of his fellows on the shoulder and raced away.

  Sendatsu turned back to the charging raiders and drew his bow once more. By now they were barely seventy yards away, and coming fast. He aimed at the lead horse, a chestnut, let out the air in his lungs and, in the pause between breaths, loosed. He watched the arrow bite home deeply and gazed with some satisfaction as the horse bucked and reared, tossing its rider and forcing those behind to slow and swerve around. He took another arrow and loosed at a rider this time, taking the man in the chest, the force of the strike sending him tumbling backwards out of his saddle. A third arrow missed, then the fourth struck another horse, bringing it down, and as he reached for his fifth arrow, the raiders were barely thirty yards away, big men on big horses, shouting their challenges and war cries, waving long swords and axes as if they intended to leap across the spiked barricade at the gate.

  To either side of Sendatsu, he could see villagers edging backwards, terror on their faces. He knew he should say something to encourage them, but had no words.

  ‘Kill them all!’ Huw roared, stepping forwards, his crossbow held tight into his hip. He walked closer to the barricade, past the men edging backwards; he held the bottom part of the bow with his left hand and his right hand was on the cocking handle. He did not know if these were the raiders who had attacked Patcham the first time but imagined the lead rider was the one who had killed his father so aimed the crossbow in his direction, as best he could. He slammed the handle forwards, sending the small wooden bolt flicking out the front and towards the Forlish and making the top half of the weapon slide forwards. He pulled the handle back, grimacing a little at the effort, and the top half slid back, allowing another bolt to drop into the firing groove, and locking the bowstring behind the firing pin. He jerked the handle forwards and another bolt zoomed out, only a few heartbeats after the first.

  He could not see where they were going but his shout, and his action in walking forwards, was enough to stir the rest of the villagers. The other crossbowmen around him, as well as the four on each platform on either side of the gate, began loosing their weapons also, a hail of stout bolts with tips that had been sharpened to a wicked point.

  The Forlish raiders screamed to a stop as they were enveloped by the cloud of bolts. They were going in all directions, peppering the ground as they missed, but the cluster of Forlish warriors on large horses was too big a target. Men and horses cried out as stout wooden bolts, each the thickness of a man’s middle finger and near a foot long, sunk into arms, legs, chests and faces.

  Men and horses went down in a pile and all the time the bolts kept flying. As soon as a crossbowman finished what was in the crude box-magazine on the top of his weapon, a woman fed handfuls more in and the men worked the mechanism, overwhelming the Forlish by the sheer rate of fire. One crossbow broke, another jammed, but enough remained to make an assault on the gate impossible.

  ‘Keep it up! Huw, hold them here — I need to see what the others are doing!’ Sendatsu yelled, then raced off to his left.

  Broyle ordered his men back — there was no way inside that gate. He had never seen anything like the bolts that were flying out of those strange bows at an impossible rate. He had seen many crossbows, had used them a few times himself, and they were massive things, needing ages to rewind for a second shot. This was something out of his experience and he had no intention of sacrificing his remaining men to help Oswald. As it was, all of Oswald’s men who had ridden with him were dead or down, as well as a pair of his own men, while another three had one or more of the strange bolts in them. Luckily they did not seem to have the range to bother him once he was fifty yards away — some still loosed but they were falling short or bounced away.

  He glanced over to his right, where Oswald was leading the main charge, and hoped the man suffered for his stupidity — but still opened a way into this cursed village. He wanted to get inside more than ever.

  He got half his wish.

  Oswald’s charge stopped as horses began falling over — and not just falling but tumbling over, sending the men flying, to crunch into the ground with bone-shattering force. The sound of screaming horses echoed across, drowning out the howls of the wounded Forlish by the gate. Broyle stared at the ground. It was as if the horses were all falling into holes … they were! He could make them out now, dotting the ground in a thick border around the village, small holes that were hard to see but deadly to any horse that stepped into them.

  Oswald was standing in his stirrups now, shouting something at his men, who tried to dismount and rush forwards at the crude palisade, ropes in hand. But Broyle knew what was going to happen before it did — a cloud of bolts reached down and covered the men on foot, knocking some over and sending the rest running for their lives.

  Oswald shouted at them, rode forwards — and was struck by several of the bolts, both he and his horse falling as one.

  Broyle glanced back towards the gate and the Velsh packed thickly there and made an instant decision.

  ‘Follow me!’ he shouted, riding hard for where Oswald’s Forlish still struggled and died under the lash of the strange crossbows.

  Sendatsu reached the platform nearest the fighting — a pile of old barrels with planks stacked on top — and hauled himself up, joining Glyn and a dozen crossbowmen working their machines as if their lives depended on it — which they did. A few others, who could not fit up on the platform, pointed their machines in the air and loosed bolts randomly over the wall in hope.

  ‘We’re beating the bastards!’ Glyn grinned.

  Sendatsu could only agree with him. Injured horses lay thickly on the ground, brought down by the holes the villagers had dug, while men screamed in agony or lay silently where they had fallen. There were still plenty of Forlish there and he ordered a crossbowman down to give himself room to draw his bow, for some of the Forlish were trying to organise the others and stopping them called for more accuracy than that provided by the crossbows. He drew back on the string, sighting on a Forlish warrior shoving men towards the wall. The man thought he was safe, a good fifty yards from the wall — but that was no distance at all to a longbow. Sendatsu loosed and the arrow jerked the man off his feet. He looked around for another target and saw a Forlishman trying to ease his horse past the many holes dug so carefully in the ground, a file of others behind. By now Sendatsu was not even thinking. These were not men any more, they were targets. Years of practice had taken over and he aimed, drew and loosed in a smooth movement, knocking the man off his horse.

  ‘They don’t like that!’ Glyn roared.

  The other Velsh were jeering now at the Forlish, not loosing so many bolts but instead trying to pick their targets, for few Forlish were willing to come close enough.

  Sendatsu ignored them, instead watching a new group come galloping close. This group did not join the rest of them in their futile attack but rather the leader waved for the surviving riders to follow him further around.

  ‘Glyn, stay here with three men! The rest of you follow me!’ Sendatsu shouted, jumping down from the platform and stumbling slightly, before running further around the wall.

  Looking carefully, Broyle could see the ground was uneven all the way around the palisade — obviously those damned holes were everywhere. But perhaps there was a way through, as long as they were there before those cursed crossbows.

  ‘Dismount!’ He flung up his hand and looked over his shoulder. More than twenty men had followed him — more than enough for the job, if he could just get them inside the wall.

  ‘Lead your horses to the wall and then use them to get over it!’

  The ropes were almost all back with the remnants of Oswald’s disastrous attack, tied to the saddles of a dozen horses who were even now screaming with broken legs, a hideous sound that was even more distressing than the cries of wounded men. But Broyle blocked both noises out.

  The holes were scattered thickly but, by walking slowly and deliberat
ely, it was possible to get the horses past them and close to the wall. Of course, walking so slow made them easy targets for the crossbows — but they were not here yet.

  ‘Hold the horses here — and use them to get over the wall and onto the battlement on the other side!’ Broyle shouted.

  He waited until one of his men held his horse steady, then stood in the saddle, holding onto the rough timber wall for balance, and looked over — to see a ten-foot drop on the other side. Looking right, he saw a rough fighting platform ten yards down, to his left there was another twenty yards away, but a group of Velsh crossbowmen, led by the archer, was already racing towards that one.

  ‘To the right! Ten yards!’ Broyle pointed, and the men following him led their horses further down.

  While one man held a horse’s head, others stood in the saddle then clumsily swung over the wall to the fighting platform — in reality just some straw bales and planks. Three, four, five men were over and jumping down to the ground, swords in their hands and running at the group of Velsh. Broyle grinned. Now his men would get some revenge. He held back from joining the race to get inside so he could watch what happened first.

  ‘Get on that platform and stop them! Leave these to me!’

  Sendatsu was hardly aware of the words as he shouted them. Gone were the doubts, the fears, the uncertainty. Instead he knew what had to be done. If these Forlish were not killed, the village was doomed. They would not show any mercy.

  He dropped his bow and drew his sword, running hard at the first Forlishman, a huge man with a rough beard and a long sword. As the Forlishman brought his sword around in a massive swipe, Sendatsu tucked his head down and went smoothly underneath in a forward roll, feeling the draught of the sword as he slipped past the first man. He came to one knee and braced his elbow, thrusting forwards in the same motion to drive his sword deep into the guts of the second Forlishman, who was not expecting to be attacked. Quick as a flash, Sendatsu ripped his blade clear and whirled to where the first warrior was trying to recover from the massive blow that had only just missed. He never got the chance. Sendatsu rose and slashed in the one movement, ripping through kidneys and spine with the thunder-strike, blood exploding from the wound.

  He turned smoothly, hearing the battle cry of the third man, who raised his blade and swung it down with all his strength. Sendatsu did not try to block it, instead spinning to his left. The sword sunk deep into the ground and, before the Forlishman could rip it free, Sendatsu swung his sword around in the dragon-tail stroke, the sharpened steel slicing through the leg just below the knee.

  Screaming, spraying blood in all directions, the warrior clutched his stump but Sendatsu was already up and moving, to where the last pair had slowed to a stop, horrified at the way their comrades had been taken apart. Before they could think of what to do, Sendatsu was upon them. He leaped high, his sword coming down over a despairing block to slice deep into the shoulder of the one to the left, sinking down into the man’s chest and heart beyond in a windmill stroke.

  The blade caught on the man’s collarbone and he used his foot to kick the dying man away to free his sword. The last Forlishman saw his chance and swung furiously. Sendatsu could only partly deflect the blow, the tip of the sword opening a line along his ribs. But he had many lessons with his father when he had taken wounds and been forced to keep going. He ignored the stinging pain and went on the attack. The Forlishman parried a pair of blows desperately, before Sendatsu used the reverse side technique, cutting low and, when the Forlishman moved to block, slicing up to rip the sword through his neck. Blood flew and the man spun away to hit the ground in a puddle of gore.

  Up on the fighting platform, another three Forlishmen who had sprung from the saddle over the wall hesitated, hardly able to believe what they had seen and not sure what they should do — hold the wall or try to attack this strange warrior, who moved and fought like nothing they had ever seen.

  But then the Velsh were there, working their crossbows, and the three were peppered with bolts, ducking and covering up and finally falling to a hail of the sharp wooden points.

  ‘Get up there and kill the rest!’ Sendatsu roared, blood caking his arms, chest and face.

  Broyle watched the archer throw away his bow and draw a strange sword, gently curved and with a slimmer blade than the broadswords they were using now and the short swords they favoured when fighting in the battle line. To Broyle, there was only going to be one outcome. Five veteran Forlishmen against one man — it was no contest. He was right in one way, he realised, as he stared in horror at the way the warrior cut apart the men. To be sure they were Oswald’s men, not his own, but still …

  ‘Kill the rest!’

  The warrior’s shout snapped Broyle out of his shock. The platform was clear, bar for three more Forlishmen, who twitched as they slowly died from the impact of a dozen of those nasty little bolts, and there were enough Velsh crossbowmen taking their place to slaughter the rest of his men.

  ‘Back! Pull back! Retreat! Leave the horses!’

  Broyle had never had to say that before, and the words tasted sour in his mouth as they raced to safety. Getting the horses out would have taken too long but, he was furious to see, several of Oswald’s men still tried. The ones who led their horses out were cut down in a swarm of crossbow bolts, while those who tried to ride out hit a hole and were sent flying, their horses left screeching with the pain of their broken legs.

  He glanced back, to see the crossbowmen stop as the last of his men dragged themselves out of range. He stared hard, wanting to see the strange warrior one more time, but the man did not appear. Broyle turned away, began to lead what was left of his men to safety.

  ‘What now, sarge?’ someone asked.

  ‘We walk away. But we’ll be back,’ Broyle promised. He glowered at the palisade. He was not finished with this village, nor with the strange warrior inside. He would get his revenge, no matter how long it took.

  Sendatsu watched the Forlish slink away, dragging some of their wounded with them, and leaving others, as well as plenty of horses, screaming in agony below the palisade.

  ‘We did it!’ Glyn bellowed, and all around the village people were cheering, embracing, laughing and crying. Women and children rushed from the houses where they had been sheltering, to join in the celebrations. Others saw the dead and dying men left by Sendatsu and hung back, or ran the other way, to where the gate was a mass of cheering Velsh.

  Leaving the pile of crying men and horses beyond the palisade, Sendatsu jumped down from the fighting platform, to where Glyn and the other Velsh crossbowmen had gathered. The only Forlish alive in the village was the man whose leg he had cut off, and he was dying, his lifeblood seeping into the earth. Sendatsu paused for a moment and sliced down once, ending his suffering.

  ‘Here he is — our hero!’ Glyn roared at the cautious crowd that had gathered nearby.

  Sendatsu suddenly could barely take another step without men and women and children wanting to embrace him. The only thing that kept him from being swamped was the blood that drenched him.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ someone called.

  Sendatsu found a dry patch of tunic and wiped his face reasonably clean.

  ‘This is Forlish blood!’ he shouted, glossing over the wound down his ribs, and they bellowed in approval.

  He retrieved his bow and made his way back to the gate, shaking hands and being patted on the back and shoulders all the way. It was as if every Velsh villager wanted to touch him, so the luck would rub off on them.

  At the gate it was a similar scene. The Velsh were cheering themselves, while outside, a pile of Forlish men and horses heaved and sobbed and bled.

  ‘We did it!’ Huw emerged from the crush to see a blood-covered Sendatsu. ‘Didn’t we?’

  ‘Just like I said we would!’ Sendatsu boasted, conveniently ignoring his doubts from earlier. ‘Your father is avenged, Huw!’

  But Huw shook his head. ‘My debt is nowhere near being paid. Thi
s is only the beginning.’

  ‘They won’t be back,’ Sendatsu announced, not listening to the bard’s words.

  ‘Of course they won’t be back! These crossbows saved us. With these, we can drive away the raiders every time — they don’t stand a chance.’ Rhiannon arrived to hear the last words, then she caught sight of Sendatsu, who was surreptitiously looking at his cut ribs. ‘You’re hurt!’

  Sendatsu smiled through the smears still left on his face. ‘It’s just a scratch.’ He shrugged.

  ‘He killed five of them with the sword — it was unbelievable, I tell you!’ Glyn announced. ‘There’s skill for you!’

  ‘Here, let me help you.’ Rhiannon rushed to where buckets of water had been left, along with a pile of torn tunics, for crude bandages.

  ‘Three cheers for the elf!’ Glyn cried and the village erupted.

  Sendatsu looked around at the grinning faces, the smiles and the applause and stood a little straighter. He was no closer to the answers he sought but this was a good thing he had done today.

  ‘Come with me, you need to do something with that wound, or it’ll fester and make you sick,’ Rhiannon insisted, trying to dab at it with a grubby tunic, soaked in dirty water.

  ‘What were you thinking of doing?’ Sendatsu stepped back rather than have that scruffy rag near his cut ribs.

  ‘Well, bind it up with an old tunic and put an elfbolt in there to keep away the evil that turns it bad,’ Glyn suggested.

  ‘Oh no you won’t!’ Sendatsu found he was more afraid of the Velsh treatment than he had been of the Forlish who injured him. ‘The bandage needs to be cleaned and boiled, and then a herbal poultice used,’ Sendatsu insisted. ‘The edges of the wound should be bound together with stitches …’

  ‘Stitches? Like clothes? I have never heard anything so revolting!’ Glyn choked.

  ‘What sort of herbs?’ Rhiannon asked.

  ‘Well …’ Sendatsu thought hard. ‘There are many. Do you have the long-leafed, spiky plant we call aloe vera?’